


Silver Nitrate

by onlyclueingforlooks



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyclueingforlooks/pseuds/onlyclueingforlooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And Sherlock, you'll be working with John."</p>
<p>Mrs. Turner read off their names with little enthusiasm, but it didn't matter. They had certainly caught Sherlock's attention. He could not suppress the grin that spread across his cheeks, infecting his entire face with a sort of joy that he hardly ever felt. John turned to Sherlock and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "You and me then, is it?"</p>
<p>A gift fic for Gen because it's almost her birthday! This is based off of a headcanon on her blog. xx</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Nitrate

"Damned silver nitrate."

It was the end of third period. Sherlock Holmes looked disdainfully down at his cream-colored jumper, now marked with a dark stain on the sleeve. It had certainly not been a good idea to go into the lab before school, regardless of his side projects. Sherlock rubbed a nail across the patch of color, knowing that it would do no good; the chemical never comes out. He'd known that since the second grade, when his mum had bought him a chemistry set for Christmas. He would just need to ignore it for the rest of the day; there was nothing to be done.

Sherlock gathered his books and set off down the hall. People were clustered all around him in couples and groups of friends. No one looked up at the sixteen-year-old genius with the mussed hair and the glasses too big for his face. The rugby team jostled each other against the locker, laughing at something that probably wasn't even funny. Sherlock hated high school. It was all so painfully predictable.

Making his way through the sea of goldfish, as Mycroft called them, Sherlock pushed through to reach his locker. The door creaked to greet him. He set his English notebook inside and pulled out his Chemistry II lab book. A paper slipped out of his locker. The drawing. Sherlock quickly picked it up before it was trampled by the people around him and snapped it back into its place on the inner door.

That, of course, was the one good aspect of fourth period chemistry. Sherlock got to see  _him._ He sat just a table away from Sherlock. Dark blond hair, blue eyes. A pair of lips that curled ever so slightly when he laughed. No, the drawing did no justice to John Watson. What John was could not be so easily captured.

Sherlock slammed his decrepit bottom locker shut and shoved the couples and the classmates out of his way, keeping his head down. It was time for class.

\------------------------------------------

Sherlock walked through the door to the lab and set his books on the table. No sign of John yet. He copied down his sheet of chemical equations to pass the time.

And there was John. Walking through the doorway to Mrs. Turner's room, his backpack slung lazily over one arm. He laughed with another classmate as he came into the room and took his seat behind Sherlock. Sherlock could nearly feel his body heat; they were so close to each other. He wanted to turn around, to say something, but what could he say? "Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and forgive me, but I've fallen hopelessly in love with you without so much as having a proper conversation"? Of course not. The idea itself was preposterous. Sherlock sighed.

John leaned back on his stool, lightly brushing Sherlock's back. Certainly an accident. Even so, Sherlock leaned just a bit back until his back was touching John's. Could he sit back, too? Or was that strange? 

How did people do these things? Flirting was certainly new to him. Sherlock wasn't sure that he liked it.

In a desperate attempt to be noticed, Sherlock leaned back.

Just then, John sat forward. Sherlock's stool went clattering to the ground with Sherlock on top of it. Sherlock's shoulder hit the ground first. He winced in pain, struggling to crawl out from under the stool. A murmur of laughter echoed through the classroom as Sherlock stood up, red-faced. John's friend was practically cackling at the other end of the table.

In fact, the only person in the room who wasn't laughing was John Watson.

He was half-smiling at Sherlock, mouthing the word "sorry." This made Sherlock blush even more. Suddenly, he was incredibly conscious of the stain on his jumper, the tangles in his hair, the position of his glasses. He brushed a hand across his hair to loosen any knots, but it was useless. Instead, he offered John a slight smile.

_It's a start._

Mrs. Turner began outlining the lab experiment for the day, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention. All he could think about was John Watson's smile. John H. Watson had smiled at him. He had been noticed. He had  _finally_ been noticed. _  
_

"And Sherlock, you'll be working with John."

Mrs. Turner read off their names with little enthusiasm, but it didn't matter. They had certainly caught Sherlock's attention. He could not suppress the grin that spread across his cheeks, infecting his entire face with a sort of joy that he hardly ever felt. John turned to Sherlock and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "You and me then, is it?"

Sherlock was hardly listening. Instead, he was staring into John Watson's blue eyes, eyes that were little over a foot away from his own. "Yes." Sherlock attempted to wipe the ridiculous grin from his face, but it was impossible. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"Fantastic. I'll just get the matches." 

"Great, yes, I..." Sherlock did not know what to say. "Thank you. I'll get the oxygen and the hydrogen." 

"Okay." John smiled before turning away, just looking at Sherlock. Whenever John Watson smiled, his whole face lit up. He brightened the room. It was one of the many things about him that fascinated the young genius.

Sherlock took the canisters of gas from the front of the lab and over to the table. They were far heavier than he had expected, but he couldn't let that show. Not in front of John.

"Here we go," Sherlock set the canisters down next to his books. "We should get started then."

John took a moment to reply. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock.

That was the problem with people like John Watson: people who made Sherlock _feel_ something. With John, Sherlock couldn't trust his deductions; he could not distinguish them from mere wishful thinking. It was frustrating.

Looking at John, however, it was worth it. Caring, feeling, was worth it.

"Of course," John said as he jolted himself back into the conversation. He opened the box of matches. "So we combine the gases over the flame and record observations. Is that right?" He struck the match effortlessly on the side of the box and lit the candle on the table between them.

"Yes, it's simple, really. You just need to get the right ratio." Sherlock so desperately wanted to impress John. He wanted John to think of him as brilliant.

He wanted John to care as much as he did.

"Let me see this. I can show you," Sherlock continued. He took the small, pressurized canisters in his hands and held them over the flame. "Watch."

Sherlock released the gases from the canisters, which met with a loud popping noise.

And a small explosion.

The blast swept through the air around the candle and up around Sherlock's hair and face. He coughed, rendered speechless by the smoke. It burned in his eyes behind his glasses. The tips of his curls had been singed by the flames, and a thin layer of soot covered his glasses and patches of his skin. As Sherlock fanned the smoke away, he could see John's face. John was laughing, but it wasn't a cruel sort of laughter. Again, he was smiling at Sherlock. The smile reached up to his eyes, which crinkled at the corners behind his goggles.

There was no question now. John Watson was enamored by Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock smiled at John and began to laugh. At himself, at the situation, at his entire bloody life. This only made John laugh harder until both of them were buckled over in hysterical laughter, nearly crying. They crouched down on the lab's floor, cackling. The rest of the class was staring at them, but it didn't matter. After a full five minutes, their laughter died down and John rose from the floor. He offered Sherlock a hand and pulled him up in front of him. For a moment, their lips were nearly touching.

John let go of Sherlock's hands; the moment had passed. He looked at John, searching for something to say.

It was John who finally filled the silence. "Sherlock, could I ask you something?"

Tension rose in Sherlock's chest and throat. He could hardly speak. "Of course."

John smiled at Sherlock, then looked down at the ground. "I was wondering... If you could, I don't know..." John's expression shifted. He looked directly into Sherlock's eyes. "Well... I could use a bit of help with some of these concepts. Would you mind helping me? Tutoring me, I suppose?"

Sherlock could practically hear another voice inside his head:  _that was not what he was going to say._

Still, Sherlock smiled. "Certainly. That would be"--he searched for the right word--"fine."

John put his shoulders back and looked up at Sherlock. "Brilliant. I'll just give you my number here. You can--" he took a deep breath as he scrawled eleven digits onto the corner of Sherlock's lab book. "You can phone me and let me know when you're available. Okay?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. I'll let you know."

"Fantastic." John swung his bag over his shoulder. "I guess I'll see you around, then."

It was certainly a start.

 

 

 


End file.
